Final Destination

I carried the last of my things to my new home tonight. The Salvation Army men came Monday and moved most everything I had not yet taken over to Mike’s place. I went back to my apartment tonight knowing after a quick sweep of my floors and a quick sweep of the items left in my fridge I would be done with life in my crappy, old apartment. From there, it was a hop, skip and a jump down the street to permanent shacking up with my man.

Unfortunately, the sweep turned out to be more of a gathering. As I pulled my front door shut, I stared at what I was about to juggle down the street: a banker’s box full of food, a purse with hangars jutting out of it, a shoulder bag filled with mugs, files and frozen food items, a bucket of various cleaning supplies and a broom. It was a lot. More than I could handle.

My first clue it was too much for one person should have been my tripping down the front stairs of my building. I was so focused on how I was going to open the door that I missed the bottom step. Don’t worry, my knees caught the brunt of my fall. My second clue that I was carrying too much should have been the homeless lady in the ally. As I passed her, me holding more than she probably owned, she commented, “Man, that’s a lot of stuff to be carrying.”

Yes, homeless lady, it was.

I stopped four times to readjust my load during the short walk down the street. By the time I made it to my official new home, Mike witnessed the woman he loves enter his home, the one he will be sharing it with - the one covered in sweat with mascara running down her cheeks, the one with scraped, bloody knees. He asked how moving went, and I snapped back “terrible” as I slammed the door to grab the second half of my load waiting at the bottom on the stairs. When I reached the third floor landing for the second time he asked, “You carried this here all by yourself?” Yes, Mike, I did. Just ask the homeless lady in my alley.

I grabbed the few frozen food items I brought (including the bag of lima beans that made the trip wedged under my left armpit), put them in the freezer and then headed back down the stairs. In my frustration of finally reaching Mike’s place, I slammed my box o’ food in the foyer. It contained powdered creamer which was now covering a portion of the entryway. I again headed down the three flights of stairs to sweep it up.

As I came up the stairs for the third and final time that night, I was greeted by Mike again. This time, he had a cold beer in hand. He said, “Here. I thought you might need this.”

Looks like this shacking up thing is working out pretty well already.